


the Council of Elrond

by Thorinsmut



Series: Free Orcs AU [12]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Complete, Gen, One Shot, anti orc racism, some things will always be the same
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-22
Updated: 2014-04-22
Packaged: 2018-01-20 11:17:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1508531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thorinsmut/pseuds/Thorinsmut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“The free Orcs of Gundabad seek the council of Lord Elrond, on the advice of the wizard Radagast.” Ilzkaal said, and she did not try to disguise the roughness of her voice as she spoke, or move her mouth in a way that disguised the size and sharpness of her teeth. She was what she was, a free Orc, and she would not attempt to hide it for their comfort.</p><p>“Has the famed hospitality of Rivedell failed? Is this the welcome all messengers receive in this place?” She asked, and saw the Elves' discomfort at the accusation.</p><p>Good.</p><p>
  <span class="small">The forming of the Fellowship in the Free Orcs AU.</span>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	the Council of Elrond

**Author's Note:**

> As always, there should be mouseover translations for your reading pleasure

Ilzkaal lifted her head high, staring down the Elves who kept their arrows trained on her and her companions.

“Since when do their foul breed walk in sunlight…” she heard them wondering in Sindarin, obviously unaware that she had been taught and trained to speak it too – and she allowed them their ignorance.

Why should she _not_ walk in sunlight? She was no Mordor slave to be imprisoned underground so her eyes never learned to handle the light. Ilzkaal was free. Born free of parents born free, and she had played in the flowers and sunlight in her childhood just as the Elves might.

They had no more right to the sunlight than she did, and she held her head high – head and shoulders taller than their tallest – and stared them down. The Elves did not like it, were unused to dealing with anyone taller than themselves. They preferred to look down rather than be looked down upon.

But why should she _not_ look down upon them. Her nakedness – stripped of weapons, armor, and clothing – was not _her_ shame. Had she not run laughing in nothing but paint and pretty beads through the halls of Gundabad her entire childhood?

Naked or not, she had nothing to hide. _Nothing_ to be ashamed of.

Let the shame be where it belonged – upon those who had ordered this. Let the Elves’ eyes shift to the sides of her as they tried not to look.

They had not known she was a woman when they ordered it, and let that be _their_ shame. She was still the same person, why should it be shameful for them to have done this to her only now? Why should she be treated any differently? She was a warrior still.

A warrior and a diplomat, trained for the hope of a contact with the last of the free peoples – the Elves – though young for it still. This is not how it had been planned.

But there was a need, and plans changed.

Ilzkaal stared down the Elves who dug through her and her companion’s belongings – and she had no shame, and nothing to hide.

…but her companions… Gaath, and little Fiil moreso – flinched beneath the disdained judgment of the Elves’ eyes, hands crossed to cover themselves as much as they could. Ilzkaal could not stand silent before their discomfort.

“The free Orcs of Gundabad seek the council of Lord Elrond, on the advice of the wizard Radagast.” Ilzkaal said, and she did not try to disguise the roughness of her voice as she spoke, or move her mouth in a way that disguised the size and sharpness of her teeth. She was what she was, a free Orc, and she would not attempt to hide it for their comfort.

“Has the famed hospitality of Rivedell failed? Is this the welcome _all_ messengers receive in this place?” She asked, and saw their discomfort at the accusation.

Good.

“We have agreed to walk unarmed in this place.” Ilzkaal said, “You have had ample time to inspect them, give my companions back their clothing.” It was an order more than a plea, and no more threat than Ilzkaal’s presence alone was.

No more threat than the implication that she would remain bare to _their_ shame until her companions were clothed.

Ilzkaal held her head high and stared down the gray eyes of the head Elf archer, past the arrow leveled between her eyes. She made no move to accept the clothing handed to her until Fiil and Gaath were dressed.

 

Ilzkaal gritted her teeth, and made no disagreements as she listened to the instructions she and her companions were given.

They were not to leave their rooms to wander the halls and forests of the valley. They were not to disturb Elves or any other guests of the valley in their work or meditations. They were not, they were not, they were not. They were not to do _anything_ but sit patiently and wait the pleasure of Lord Elrond.

They had their clothing, and Gaath had been granted his scribe tools and the proof and records they’d brought – but nothing else. Everything had been taken from them – their food spilled on the ground, their spices and their _akrumlob_ discarded at their feet on suspicion of poison. If they ate, it would be what the Elves fed them.

They had been given only a single set of clothing each of all their belongings. They did not even have their boots to wear, and Ilzkaal gritted her teeth and bore it.

She bore it because her people fought and died for their freedom. Because she was raised on the tales of the Orcs who lived on scraps as they traded away the finest of what they had, and were _cheated_ , because their people needed to be seen and known by the other free peoples of Middle Earth if they were to survive. Because she was an Orc and an Orc could bear infinitely worse.

She bore the condescending instructions they were given, and the Elves ranging around to guard them casually speaking insults and suggesting to each other that it would be best to shoot ‘that filth’ on the spot because they did not think she understood Sindarin.

Ilzkaal bore it because the good of her people and _all_ the free peoples of Middle Earth was more important than her personal comfort. The wars for freedom were not so long ago that Ilzkaal had not seen the scars of slavery, heard the tales of the life that waited those who fell to Mordor.

“And you are not to speak that foul tongue of yours in this place.” Ilzkaal was instructed, and she gritted her teeth and bore it.

“ _Narsnaga Mordorab._ ” a clear voice broke in, and Ilzkaal could not contain her small jolt of surprise to hear Orc speech– but neither could the Elf guards. They turned to see a tiny person with big furry feet, his hair in long white braids clasped in gold, leaning heavily on a cane.

There was only one person _that_ could be… thought Ilzkaal had not heard he was in Rivendell. The last Gundabad had heard _Gashnal-gaz_ was living in the Shire still.

“…Bilbo…” The Elf chastised, and the Hobbit raised an eyebrow at him.

“A language is only as foul as the intentions of those speaking it.” Bilbo answered, “and it’s Sindarin that sounds foul here…” He glanced toward the Elves who’d been making the most threats, but they would not meet his eye.

“Ilzkaal.” Bilbo greeted gently, limping past the Elf at the door and reaching up toward her.

“ _Gashnal-gaz_ ” Ilzkaal answered, sinking to one knee to be low enough to easily press cheeks with the Hobbit. He was so old, and fragile – she took care not to hold him too tight.

She could bear it… she could bear _whatever_ insults the Elves heaped on them, but just _one_ friendly face…

“Oh my dear child…” Bilbo said, drawing back slightly. He rested one tiny hand on her shoulder, the other cupping her cheek. “What a beauty you are. You have so much of your mother in you.”

Ilzkaal swallowed hard. Most people, even among Orcs, saw her so big and so pale and saw only her father and grandfather. _She_ had always thought she favored her mother.

“Up you get, then.” Bilbo said, smiling at her, and Ilzkaal obeyed. “You must be tired from your journey, but if you would do an old Hobbit the favor lending me your arm for a brief stroll?”

“I…” Ilzkaal looked toward the Elves who were still armed and guarding her and her companions, though seeming a little dazed by Bilbo.

“Ilzkaal’s family are old friends of mine. They saved my life.” Bilbo said firmly to the Elves, “I’m _going_ to visit with her about them, and I’m _certainly_ not going to do it beneath all your arrows.”

“Come on then… and your friends. We won’t go far, I’m afraid I’m not up to that anymore.” he said to Ilzkaal, and walking with him sounded infinitely better than staying here being insulted and threatened.

She offered the Hobbit her hand, keeping her grip gentle on his bird-boned hand, and nodded to Fiil and Gaath to join them as she allowed Bilbo to lean on her and lead her slowly out into the valley.

There were still archers watching them… but they were staying back further now.

“What brings you to Rivendell, then?” Bilbo asked.

“Nothing good.” Ilzkaal answered. She’d rather not tell the story to any but Lord Elrond. Bilbo sighed, nodding.

“That _is_ the word, these days. I’m afraid it’s a bit of my fault – that old ring of mine, who’d have thought?” he said sadly, “…but I have a feeling we’ll all be talking about that with Lord Elrond soon enough, now that Frodo’s out of danger…”

“Oh, my adopted heir Frodo is here!” he said, brightening slightly, “You’ll get to meet him. Bofur’s sitting with him now. He was attacked on the road, but he should be up and about soon enough. But tell me…” he said, smiling, “How _is_ dear Aklash doing?”

Ilzkaal smiled as she walked through the valley of Imladris with _Gashnal-gaz_ , and it did not escape her notice that he was careful to choose paths that would not be rough on her and her companion’s bare feet as they wandered.

 

Ilzkaal endured the looks of fear, distrust, and outright hatred as she took her place in the meeting circle, Fiil and Gaath seated behind her.

Let the Men and Elves stare. Let them see what a free Orc was. She held her head high and met their eyes calmly.

The rest of their clothing had been given back, at least, so she could wear the loose one-shouldered robe of gold mesh set with cut tiny diamond-cut quartz so she gleamed like the starlight that was her namesake, over a simple loin cloth and belt of soft pale leather. Let them see the fineness of an Orc’s craftsmanship. Let them see the strength of her body. Let them see the beauty scars carved into her chest and thighs, gleaming pale blue with the ink ground into them.

Ilzkaal was born free of parents born free. She had as much right as any to sit here.

Boromir of Gondor looked at her as though it was all he could do not to stab her through where she sat. He judged from where he sat, and from where _she_ sat she judged that he wore Orcish mohair in his cloak.

The prince of Mirkwood, Legolas, was less surprised at her presence. He had enough dealings with Erebor to be accustomed to the idea of free Orcs. Unsurprised, but displeased – and in no place to judge either with the decorative stitching on his tunic dyed with Orcish Tyrion purple.

 _Groth-Fakhthal_ was among the circle of the council, the gray wizard of nightmare, and Ilzkaal was no Mordor slave to cower and die before him. She held his eyes for a long moment before _he_ looked away first.

Not all the faces were unfriendly, though. Beside her was a solid red-haired Dwarf who introduced himself gruffly as Gimli, and smiled when they determined that he was the _same_ Gimli who was friends with her father – the son of Gloin, who had funded so many of the Orcs’ richest mines.

He was a solid presence at her side, a reassurance, but there was something wrong. A twist beneath her stomach or a taste in the back of her throat.

Ilzkaal glanced to Fiil, behind her, and the small Orc nodded – looking ill. He was possibly the most sensitive to the power of Mordor Gundabad had ever produced.

The Council was met. The Men spoke, and the Elves spoke, and the gray wizard spoke, and the Dwarves spoke of a messenger of Mordor at their gates turned away again and again by King Thorin – and when it was relevant and it was her turn – Ilzkaal spoke.

“I am _Ilzkaal fauldush-baiarkob_ , daughter of Aklash and Bolg, and granddaughter of General Azog, who speaks on the council of Elders in Gundabad.” She saw Elves and Men startle when she called herself ‘daughter’. “I am sent of Gundabad, with grave news for all the free peoples of Middle Earth. Some you have already heard. The power of Mordor rises. Armies of slaves have been bred behind the gates – and another strain in Isenguard also. Nazgul have been felt searching the wilds…” her eyes turned toward sweet old Bilbo, who had not known, “Searching for a Hobbit with the braids of a Dwarf. Gaath has compiled proof and details of it all… and of the relic they search for.”

There were arguments, the Orcs’ presence and proofs contested, but their proof was solid, their stories true, and Ilzkaal held firm to her place.

Until the relic itself was brought out by young Frodo Baggins – a tiny gold ring placed on the table with a quiet clink that echoed through Ilzkaal’s chest like a gong.

She could not breathe.

The _wrong_ in the pit of her stomach twisted like it would tear her apart, the taste in the back of her throat thickened so she would choke.

And there was something curling through the back of her mind that was not her own.

Her nails bit into her palms, cutting to drip dark blood as her head dropped to her chest. She fought it with everything she had – the _wrongness_ , the _evil_.

The _other_ in her mind.

Mordor standing before her and she hated it.

And she _loved_ it like the salt of a lover’s sweat against her lips.

Ilzkaal fought within herself, while around her the Men and Dwarves and Elves fought outside themselves, shouting hard words at one another.

So consumed with the battle, Ilzkaal almost did not notice little Fiil crawl over her toward the Ring.

His needle-teeth were bared as he reached for it with his sharp-clawed hand – his other hand still fighting it, cutting into her neck to hold himself back the only way he could.

“ _The master desires it!”_ he moaned.

And Ilzkaal met, for the first time, an enemy she feared – a battle she could not win.

“No! We were born free!” She shouted, to herself – to herself and the insidious touch in the back of her mind.

Ilzkaal turned and ran for her life, dragging her companions bodily behind her as she fled blindly.

Away. _Anywhere_ so long as it was _away_.

 

Bilbo found them.

Ilzkaal doubted they’d ever escaped the sights of at least one Elvish archer, but if so they had stayed out of sight and it was Bilbo who came to find them sitting beneath a tree, beside a little stream.

The free Orcs trying to assure themselves that they still _were_ free.

Bilbo limped out on his cane, carrying a basket of food for them.

Ilzkaal would not have thought warm little jelly scones would be so comforting when she was shaken – but they were.

She had discarded her gleaming robe – she did not shine right now and could not bear to wear it – so Bilbo’s little hand rested on the bare skin of her back as he patted her comfortingly. Fiil was curled into a tiny ball sobbing in her lap, and even Gaath who had felt it the least was leaning against her side for strength.

It was good to have someone offering _her_ strength, too.

Fiil calmed as he ate his scone, and Ilzkaal herself settled – and _Gashnal-gaz_ told them what they had missed.

The Fellowship, lead by Frodo, would be attempting to destroy the Ring.

Legolas and Gimli, Aragorn and Boromir, the Hobbits and _Groth-fakhthal_.

“It will destroy them all.” Ilzkaal said softly, and she saw the sorrow on Bilbo’s face, the denial.

“It will.” she said, “There is a saying… _given time, everyone falls to Mordor_. It will destroy them. One by one.”

“You don’t believe Mordor can be defeated?” Bilbo asked, soft pain in his voice.

“…no.” Ilzkaal answered. Did that even have to be said?

“Then… why?” Bilbo asked, “Why fight it? Why give _so much_ for freedom if…”

“My parents were born free because my grandparents knew… it is better to die fighting than to live a slave. It is always best to fight.” she answered.

Bilbo nodded once, briefly, his long white braids swaying with it, “Then _this_ is fighting it, in the only way we can. Maybe there can be another generation born free because of it.”

And if all Hobbits were as brave and hopeful and resistant to evil as Bilbo, then maybe there _was_ a chance.

“We can hope.” Ilzkaal answered softly, and she could smile – just a little – for him.

**Author's Note:**

> just one more fic left in this AU!
> 
> (for an AU of this AU in which Ilzkaal joins the quest and pegs Boromir's sweet Gondorian butt and everyone lives- turn your eyes here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/1583042 )

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Wildflowers](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1583042) by [Thorinsmut](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thorinsmut/pseuds/Thorinsmut)




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